Path of Transcendence 1: Ultimatum of the Nameless God (25 page)

Leaving Perzey to her dismemberment antics, I walk back toward the spider tunnel. Those Dvergar had to all be Transcendents, so why were they here? The only thing beyond the spider tunnel is the Four Bones Goblin Lair, but what interest could it hold for normal Dvergar, let alone Transcendent Dvergar? Could it have something to do with the spawn points? In other words, could it have something to with the arrival of Jinmu and myself?

Even more of a mystery is, why did Thug Horde attack the Dvergar? Thug Horde normally avoids Dvergar like the plague. Years ago, they came out the losers in several battles against a small group of Dvergar, when they were trying to raid them for treasure. According to the story I heard, the Dvergar killed them all, and then camped their nearest respawn points for over a month. Every time a member of the Thug Horde raid group fought their way back from the Land of the Dead, the Dvergar would kill them again. Thug Horde had to send an even larger expectation, that was decimated and driven back. After that, the Dvergar made them pay a huge weregild.

The forum posts at The Nameless Entertainment, Inc.'s official Taereun site were hilarious. Thug Horde took to the forums in a mass bitch session campaign that got them nowhere. The short official response amounted to: LOL. If you want to fight Dvergar, GET STRONGER. Reading the full explanation, it was clear that The Nameless Entertainment, Inc. claimed to be unable to manipulate the game's structure or difficulty without running the risk of destroying the entire balance of the game.

No one ever understood why The Nameless Entertainment, Inc. claimed to be unable to modify the difficulty of game content. Now, I suppose the players trapped in the Battleground of the Damned understand why. When the game is not really a game, how do you control the content?

Thug Horde's forum campaign turned into the biggest Thug bashing session ever. Players came out of the woodwork for the chance to laugh at Thug Horde's loss. Since then, Thug Horde never openly attacked the Dvergar. Now that the game is their only reality, why would they be so stupid as to get in a fight with Transcendent Dvergar?

The stench of the blood and offal is filling the air, giving testament to the battlefield I am approaching. Rounding the bend between Perzey's fight and the clearing, the entry of the tunnel becomes visible. The clearing is covered with corpses and pieces of corpses, mostly pieces. Blood mist has coated the grass, turning the field to an ugly rust-mud shade of brown. Blood spattered gaps in the surrounding woods, show the locations of the deaths of the other Thugs who tried to flee. Even if the bodies could be counted, there would be no need, the Dvergar would have killed every single Thug, with the exception of Kahar.

Above the tunnel mouth is a clue to why Thug Horde attacked the Dvergar. An Alfar, almost certainly DokkAlfar, corpse is hanging spreadeagled on the cliff face. Spears roughly formed from stone have been used to nail it to the stone of the cliff, one in each of the shoulders, wrists and ankles. Its torn black robes reveal alabaster skin, covered with obsidian tattoos, and its intestines are falling toward the ground in a long looping rope, from the gaping wound in its lower abdomen. The tattoos are the markings of a school of Umbral Sorcery. Menton, the DokkAlfar leader of Thug Horde, has very similar tattoos.

I very much doubt that this DokkAlfar was a player. Before the Great Fuck Over, Menton was the only player to ever be a DokkAlfar. Why would Thug Horde take on Dvergar at the behest of the DokkAlfar? Why would the DokkAlfar use trash like Thug Horde to attack Dvergar, let alone Transcendent Dvergar?

As I get close, the corpse raises its head to glare at me, its eyes filled with burning hate. How can he still be alive with so many large wounds? After a few moments, the DokkAlfar pukes up a mouthful of blood and seems to stop breathing.

Spread out among the body parts are hundreds of pieces of gear, that belonged to the slaughtered Thug Horde trash. The Dvergar apparently did not even deign to loot a single item, but with their power, they probably have equipment that far surpass anything here.

Close to three hundred of the items are dimensional storage devices. Many of these, all in the form of jewelry, were not made by the frog. They have a maker's mark that I do not recognize. It takes hours to bind them, check the contents, organize the contents, break the soul thread and store the items. A huge pile trash, that I have no intentions of dealing with or carrying around, grows next to me, as I sort through the contents of the storage devices.

While I do not know of a limit on the number of soul threads that can be maintained, the more that I have attached the more cumbersome it feels. There are no physical detriments that I can detect, but it still feels like a subconscious weight is growing, which is why I decided to break all but a single soul thread. The remaining soul thread is tied to a black leather belt pouch that I like the looks of, where I am storing the rest of the devices.

The sun is past its zenith, when I finish with the storage devices and begin to look through the other equipment. Amid the stomach turning stench of the battlefield, with corpses and blood already beginning to rot, I eat a quick lunch of travel bread and dried meat.

Perzey has not made an appearance, but I have the feeling that I am being watched. Whatever she may be up to, I do not have any inclination to play games with her now. I simply want to finish this revolting job and leave this field of carnage. During my time in my Half-Dvergar body, I grew used to scenes like this, with the stench of rotting bodies and blood, but it does not mean that I enjoy them.

There are dozens of low grade weapons of Power scattered among the corpses, but none of them give the feel that they would be better than my current swords. Only two items stand out: one is a bastard sword, about two inches longer than mine, that has to weigh nearly two-hundred pounds; the other is a bow, with a feeling of Power so strong that it has to be a Legendary Weapon, the strongest of the Weapons of Power.

Almost universally, Items of Power are divided into three general tiers. The weakest are known by a myriad of names, one of the most common being magic items, and are simply items that have had Power bound into them through various means. Strangely or not so strangely, they are similar to what would be though of as a “+1 magic sword” or a “+5 magic sword” in a fantasy game. Stronger and more durable than non-magic or mundane items, their real advantage is that they have patterns that allow them to be “healed” using mana. Specialized abilities, spells or devices are necessary to perform the healing, but the almost living nature items of power makes them far more desirable than a mundane item.

The next most powerful are known by many names as well, but ironically, the most common is named items. As ridiculous as it may sound, the very existence of the item has a name bound to or burned into its pattern. That name could be thought of as the items True Name, and it would not be far off. These items have been used by powerful enough wielders to embed images of their deeds into the very existence of the weapon.

Legendary items are the greatest of all magic weapons. They are called such, because they have been used in the commission of deeds so great that at one time their names became parts of the legends and lore of Taereun. Many have since been forgotten, but their Power still remains. They usually have a far greater amount of Power than a simple named item, as well as having the most detailed memories of their history. A Legendary item can have a history that spans dozens of wielders, and a complete understanding of that history is necessary to tap into the full strength of the item. If Mjolnir, Thor's hammer from Norse mythology, existed, it would be something that could be called a Legendary item.

The bow in my hands is rather common looking for a stone bow, with the exception of feathers etched in the limbs and filled with sapphire dust. Its body is carved from a single piece of petrified wood, with leather wrappings around the grip. Its string is made of metal wire, which is common for extremely high draw weight bows in Taereun. Still, when I grasp it, I feel something. A hint of deep deep Power, hidden somewhere within the item. There are no accessible thread points or severed soul threads, so it is obviously not a common Item of Power. It could simple be an ordinary named item, if any named item can be called ordinary, but I have a suspicion that there is more to it.

On the other hand, the sword does not give any hint of Power, but its weight is so great that I do not even know what it might have been forged from. The black of the blade is non-reflective, only the indigo and violet shading along the edges giving any relief to the midnight hue. The guard, crafted from a silvery metal, curves back along the blade a good six inches, and the hilt is wrapped with a black hide, that I cannot identify.

Everything else has the obvious thread points of lesser items or is obviously mundane, so I just store it all. I will go through it later, when I have time to determine what might be of some use. I store the sword as well. Since I do not have any idea of what it is, I will need to investigate it later.

The sun is already three-quarters of the way to the horizon, so there is no point in travelling today. From the south, the thunder of the waterfall is clearly audible, even a mile is not enough to silence the roar of tens of thousands of gallons of water falling every minute. Making my way to the east end of the pool at its base, I set up camp on a relatively flat boulder. At some point in the past, it probably fell from the escarpment cliff and has been worn smooth in countless flood seasons.

Sitting with the bow across my knees, I focus my soul awareness on it. The same sensitivity used to find thread points can be used to search out the memories of named items. It is the least efficient way, but I am not a caster, so I lack the ability to use the more efficient spells.

As time passes, I see nothing but arrows being fired, millions of arrows, billions of arrow, maybe trillions of arrows. Eventually, I begin to see the targets: humans, Dvergar, orcs, goblins, trolls, beasts, beastmen, and countless creatures I cannot put names to. Incalculable legions have fallen victim to the arrows fired from this bow. Suddenly, a wrenching pain drives into my skull.

The tip of my lower limb rests on the ground, while his hand nestles firmly around my grip. Our enemies spread out below in their tens of thousands. Soon the slaughter will begin. I can barely wait for the chance to fulfill my purpose, to bring swift death to the targets. He is .  .  .

I roll to the side, and two sword points stab through the empty air, where my back was a fraction of a second ago. Holding the bow in my left hand, I surge to my feet, spinning and drawing my sword at the same time. Slapping aside the two short swords, I step backwards, with a ground devouring movement from Shadow Fist.

“You little bitch, I almost had the knowledge I needed.”

Perzey glares at me, as I slip the bow into my belt pouch. The madness in her is causing her eyes to glow faintly with blood-lust. Her eyes flicker to my left hand sword leaving its scabbard, as she stalks forward. Her feet riding on a cushion of air, she launches herself into a low line attack, targeting my lead leg. Anger twists her face, when I block her blades and target her face with a backhand slash. As she twists to avoid it, Perzey crouches down and launches herself into the air.

I cannot keep from gaping, as wings of condensed, turbulent air momentarily sprout from Perzey's back. They only last long enough to carry her up and over my head. As her swords stab at my back, I parry over my shoulders, forcing her blades wide of the mark. Even so, I am hit in the arms by gusts of wind that have blade-like sharpness and force. Even without slicing through my chainmail, the winds still have enough impact to bruise me. I parry a flurry of stabs and slashes, as I spin and back off a step.

Unlike a few days ago, Perzey is no longer using physical strength to attack. She has acquired a smooth motion and control over her body's abilities, but the cost is her self-control. Her narrowed eyes, filled with blood-lust, glare at me, as she ruthlessly attacks. She never had compassion, but now she seems to lack caution and remorse. I prefer her like this, honest in her hatreds.

Her fighting style seems totally focused on her weapons, to the point of ignoring all the natural weapons that her body contains. It almost seems to be more of a dueling art than a battle art.

Time to put her to the test. I go on the offensive. Splitting my attacks between high and low, I force Perzey back. My sword's blades are more than half again as long as hers, and the speed of my assault gives her no chance to retaliate.

When Perzey's face twists into a mask of frustration, I abruptly halt my attack. It takes her half a second to register that no more attacks are coming and lunge at me. There is no subtlety to the attack, and no feint is used to conceal it. Her eyes widen in surprise, as my crossed swords catch and redirect her blades enough to slip past. The surprise turns to pain, when my kick catches her in the lower abdomen. It is far enough to the side of her bladder that it should not kill her, but the force still lifts her off her feet. My follow-up kick, with the opposite leg, slams into Perzey's upper arm, as she falls toward the ground.

Splash!

I do not press my advantage, as she tumbles across the ground and into the river. I keep a mocking smile on my face, as Perzey staggers to her feet, glaring at me.

“AAAAAAYYYAAAAA!” As her shriek fills the air, Perzey charges.

Her form is sloppy, and I only use my swords to deflect hers slightly, as I step around and behind her. She tries to follow my movement but stumbles, when my toe kick digs into her quadriceps, causing the muscle to spasm. A second kick to her ass sends her flying again.